I suppose deep down I hope,
One day, to have Garrison Keillor read a poem
I have written for my father, only when
He and I have had time to really hash it out
after he is dead: I will write
With sadness a verse about that winter you waged war
With the thick ice
The plow could not scrape up, and how I would find you
in the corner of the driveway, dutifully spreading salt
As if scattering ashes.